


I Cry Your Mercy

by saretton



Series: Ineffable Husbands Week 2019 [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Books, Crying, Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, I mean it was John Keats who wrote that... I can only be in awe, John Keats - Freeform, M/M, No Beta, Poetry, Reading, Reading Aloud, Romantic Poetry, i cry your mercy-pity-love, once again rated T for reasons, we die like heroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-21 18:00:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20697692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saretton/pseuds/saretton
Summary: Aziraphale sighed. “You’re right. Sorry, It’s… it’s been difficult. And this poem I was reading… This poem, it opened my eyes about…”Crowley had never seen Aziraphale struggle for words. This made him decide that it was time, if possible, to explore the matter until the end, if Aziraphale consented. He couldn’t bear to see him so distressed.---In which a particular poem makes Aziraphale space out, making Crowley investigate on the matter.





	I Cry Your Mercy

**Author's Note:**

> Ineffable Husbands Week 2019  
Day 2: Tuesday, 10th September 2019  
Theme: a song or a poem  
Poem: John Keats’s “I cry your mercy-pity-love”

Crowley huffed as he sunk down on the sofa in his apartment. He ached everywhere, he was tired. It had been a long and exhausting day. Hell had let him go and they wouldn’t pry or make demands on him or Aziraphale anymore but, after a couple of months, some of the demons had wanted to meet again, to remember the good old times with him, to go ice skating a bit in the main hall of Hell, the one filled with door-to-door salesmen. As friends, not colleagues. It was, to put it mildly, tedious as Heaven, but Crowley did it to keep them content – there had been times in which he had had a decent amount of fun. He always came back home a total wreck, though.

Next to him, Aziraphale was reading a tiny, antique book with a dark engraved cover, no title on it. A first edition, probably, of the early 19th century. The angel was completely absorbed in what he was doing, so much that he didn’t even realize Crowley had slumped down beside him, half-sprawled, one hand holding his head up, the other gripping the seatback. It was not unusual to see Aziraphale read, but the fact that he didn’t even raise an eyebrow at Crowley’s appearance confused him.

“Angel?”, called Crowley, just to make sure he was alright. He didn’t mind staying like that next to his favourite being in the entire creation, even if the angel would never, ever admit that the feeling between them was mutual and that they loved each other beyond any reasonable amount. Just to be close to him, to be able to watch – no, to _see_ him, was enough to Crowley. It was alright. They had spent millennia filled with casual encounters and, after the Averted Apocalypse, they had decided that they would spend as much time together as they could. Now he could lay eyes on his angel every day, and no Archangel nor Duke of Hell could ever make him avert his gaze anymore.

Still, seeing Aziraphale _this_ enraptured by something was new – and the angel had usually been enraptured by many other things. Other books, sweets, animals. But not like this. He’d never spaced out before.

Only then did Crowley realize that Aziraphale was not only reading, but he was also mouthing the words. He kept the book open in the palm of his hands with such reverence that Crowley thought he feared to touch it, to soil it or to taint it, somehow; he kept that little book in his hands as if he were cuddling a chirping baby bird, as if he were praying with the aid of a breviary. It was an endearing sight to say the least. Crowley was left speechless for some moments, forgetting to breathe. Meanwhile, Aziraphale kept reading. On and on. Without turning the pages. In fact, he was reading ceaselessly the same page. Crowley noticed that and he found it interesting. Once more, curiosity took over him. He needed to know, right there and then, what it all was about.

“Aziraphale, what are you reading?”, he managed to ask at last.

The angel snapped back to reality. He looked at Crowley – “Oh! Why, dear, ehm, hello!” –, he looked back at his book, realized something. His face turned an embarrassing shade of pink and crimson and he snapped the book shut. “Nothing, really. Just my usual boring books, nothing to worry about. Why are you so interested anyway? You never read… It’s a trifle, really…”

“Angel”, Crowley said, amused and patient, “when you fret and babble like this, you always get suspicious, like you’re plotting or hiding something. Come on now, I was just being curious. You looked so… so blissful, you didn’t even realize I got home.”

“I… Yes, I didn’t.” Aziraphale gulped. “Anyway, I’d rather you didn't talk about this.”

“Is it so personal?”

“No. I mean, yes. I mean… In reading it, I realized something that unsettled me a little.”

“How could it be? Was it something sinful?” Crowley smirked.

“Please, Crowley, don’t tease me.” Aziraphale huffed in frustration. “You don’t know what it is that I was reading, and…”

Crowley noticed the slight panic in Aziraphale’s voice and became a little worried, his smirk disappearing in an instant. He took the angel’s hands in his own. “Angel, look at me. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable, I didn’t know it was this important to you. It’s just… I was just curious. You know me.” He stifled a laugh. “I’ve always been the tempting snake thirsting for knowledge, haven’t I?” At the very least, Aziraphale was laughing quietly now, relaxing a little, much to Crowley’s relief. “Does this have to do with our ex-sides tracking us down, spying, and so on?” There was no answer. Aziraphale looked away. Ah, so it _was_ that… “We don’t have to worry anymore about anything, you know that. Our side, remember? We are safe. We are on _our own_ side.” He squeezed his hands as a sort of confirmation.

Aziraphale sighed. “You’re right. Sorry, It’s… it’s been difficult. And this poem I was reading… This poem, it opened my eyes about…”

Crowley had never seen Aziraphale struggle for words. This made him decide that it was time, if possible, to explore the matter until the end, if Aziraphale consented. He couldn’t bear to see him so distressed. “Angel, why don’t you just read this… this poem to me? You know, instead of trying to explain, or instead of reading it myself.” Aziraphale looked at him, taken aback. “That way, you wouldn’t be uncomfortable, and… I could understand what is going through your mind. As long as you want to, of course.”

A good half a minute passed in which the angel pondered on that, while freeing one hand and brushing the black cover of the book lightly, absent-mindedly. Eventually, he bit his lip – _oh dear, angel of mine…_ – and exhaled a long breath. “Yes… maybe it’s for the best. It won’t be easy for me, though. Forgive me.” He opened the book, found the page he’d been reading and started declaring the verses out loud with a shaky voice.

> _I cry your mercy—pity—love!—aye, love!_
> 
> _Merciful love that tantalizes not,_
> 
> _One-thoughted, never-wandering, guileless love,_
> 
> _Unmasked, and being seen—without a blot!_

Aziraphale made a brief pause to gulp and catch his breath. Even reading those four verses seemed taxing to him. Crowley watched him intently and marvelled at the realization that Aziraphale _felt_ those sweet and desperate words, he was _feeling_ them right there and then, like a warm fire or a cold rain on his skin. They made him quake deeply, it was plain to see. Aziraphale started to shake while trying to pull himself together to read on.

> _O! let me have thee whole,—all—all—be mine!_
> 
> _That shape, that fairness, that sweet minor zest_
> 
> _Of love, your kiss,—those hands, those eyes divine,_
> 
> _That warm, white, lucent, million-pleasured breast…_

As the angel’s cheeks were moist with uncontrollable tears and he was starting to sob, Crowley didn’t think twice and lunged forward, taking him in his arms, his chin resting on the angel’s head, his back against Crowley’s chest.

Crowley wasn’t a fool. He realized this poem had finally made his angel acknowledge his feelings for him. No wonder the angel was so wrecked. He’d always bottled up every emotion and now, reading this poem, he was probably feeling exposed, naked. Simple, begging words full of meaning, pleading verses made of life, of love…

However, this was no time to rejoice. Not yet. They would have an eternity for that. Right now, Aziraphale’s well-being was far more important. He slowly petted his hair as Aziraphale read on, with a passion that was almost on the brim of despair.

> _Yourself—your soul—in pity give me all,_
> 
> _Withhold no atom’s atom or I die…_

A beat. At this couplet, Crowley felt his lungs squeeze the last bits of air out of his body, his stomach clenching as he stared at the wall. He took in the enormity of those words, holding Aziraphale’s trembling body tighter. He held onto him for dear life, without any intention of letting him go.

Little by little the angel stopped his sobbing, growing silent, and pulled himself together once more. He pulled away from Crowley’s arms and turned around to cradle the demon’s face among his smooth, delicate fingers, face to face. The feeling of Aziraphale’s cold pinky ring on Crowley’s jaw sent shivers down his throat.

Crowley noticed that, in doing so, Aziraphale had left the book fall on his lap, now a neglected possession when moments before it had been kept so tenderly by Aziraphale’s hands. Just like the angel was doing now with his face. Aziraphale, now strangely calm considering his previous state, quoted the last verses by heart, his forehead touching Crowley’s, his red eyes unblinking.

> _Or living on perhaps, your wretched thrall_
> 
> _Forget, in the mist of idle misery,_
> 
> _Life’s purposes,—the palate of my mind_
> 
> _ Losing its gust, and my ambition blind!_

Crowley closed his eyes, tilting his head back. God, Satan, what a poem. He fully realized now why his angel was so much distressed by it. It burned in his soul, it was the explosion of a million stars. It was rhapsodic in a glorious sort of way.

He felt a nose, then a pair of lips against his collarbone, his throat, his cheeks. A veil of probing and loving touches, like soft feathers of white wings, flapping higher and higher. Eventually, a tentative and reverent kiss, like a chaste dove fluttering about and landing, at last, on Crowley’s lips.

“Do you understand, now? These words, this poem…” Aziraphale was whispering, his voice barely audible. “They were about…”

“I do”, Crowley whispered back. “I do understand.”

“Thank goodness for John Keats. Sweet young boy…” Aziraphale breathed out and smiled. “Nonetheless, I suppose I owe you an explanation. Forgive me, I was… I’ve been afraid. I read this poem just once, when it was published. In fact, it’s always been among my favourites, but I’ve never related it to anyone in particular. Until today. All this time, we could have been-”

Crowley hushed him, kissing him again. He was allowed to, now. “This is no time for silly and long explanations. Let us leave them for later, mmh?” They smiled softly. “Just… thank you, angel. I’ve been waiting for you, waiting and waiting since the dawn of time, and you’ve finally come to me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Well, how about that? For the second prompt of Ineffable Husbands Week I couldn't even think of leaving out my all-time favourite poem, so here it is.
> 
> Much later, after reading Wallissa's "Dried flowers", I realized all too late that my fic is much similar to her work, however I didn't know that before writing. We just had very similar ideas (this is not meant as a plagiarism of any kind, believe me, and also Wallissa please don't be offended, your work is SO much better than mine ç_ç).
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoyed! :)  
Come visit me on Tumblr - the name's saretton there, too!


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